he did so, he tripped over a little mound.
Cursing silently, he picked himself up, discovering in the process a
small row of pineapples. Reaching down he plucked one, about the size
of a hand grenade, and stuffed in into his pocket. Then, compass in
hand, he prepared to retrace his steps. Let's see—the reciprocal of
the heading that had brought him to the corner of the garden would be
three three-eight degrees. He sighted this heading, then started off,
counting his steps.
Stealthily, crouched almost doubled over,
squatting occasionally to listen, he made his way back to the
wooded area. Now, if he had stayed precisely on his compass course,
had properly counted his steps, his hole should be about... here. He
poked around with his hands in the dark.
No hole.
My God! If he couldn't find his hole he was in
deep trouble. All his materials of survival—flares, gun, and
everything—were in that hole. He felt the hairs on his neck rise.
Stop it! He mustn't panic.
He forced himself to relax until his panting
stopped. Then he marked his spot and started walking around it in
ever-increasing circles.
Three minutes later he stepped into his hole.
He stripped away the brush cover, saw with relief
that his belongings were just as he had left them, then crawled back
into his haven. Even his caterpillar was safe. He gave a moment of
thanks. He had successfully debarked from his sanctuary, and by
virtue of cunning and his navigational skills he had returned safe
and sound. He grinned to himself as he recalled the old saw fliers
used on returning from a mission: "Once again science and skill
have triumphed over ignorance and superstition." No one ever
mentioned luck.
He checked in on the radio. There was obvious
relief in the voice of the pilot as he acknowledged. "Good show,
Bat Twenty-one. We were worried."
"No sweat. Now if you'll excuse me, dinner's
waiting."
"Bon appetit, Bat. Listening, out."
Gently Hambleton removed the berries from the
pockets of his flying suit and placed them in his helmet. Then he
took one ear of corn and put the other two in a pocket of his
survival vest for safekeeping. With the care of a man restoring an
old painting, he delicately peeled the husks off the ear of corn, and
picked off each silk. Then, after carefully burying the leavings, he
settled back in his hole, picked up the ear of corn in his grimy
hands, and began nibbling down the rows, a kernel at a time, reveling
in the pleasant taste of the sweet milk. When he had finished with
the corn, he solemnly proceeded to eat the cob, grinding it down to a
pulp fine enough to swallow.
Then came the fruit. One by one he consumed the
berries, first savoring them in his mouth, then crushing them with
his tongue, delighting in the squirting juice that bathed his mouth
and provided much-needed liquid to his body.
But the pineapple was something else. It was as
green and hard as the hand grenade it resembled. It defied all of his
efforts to cut it with the knife, so it went into the hole along with
the corn husks and silk.
He lay back and patted his stomach. He longed for
a cigarette to top off his repast. God, would a Marlboro taste good.
But he had to knock it off. He didn't need a cigarette. He had food
in his stomach. Look at the bright side! Count his blessings! Relax!
Perhaps a little after-dinner nap would put everything back into
proper perspective.
He shut his eyes and starting composing a military
letter to the Surgeon General about cigarettes.
But sleep still would not come. The sullen booming
of far-off guns was scarcely a lullaby, and the introduction of food
to his shrunken stomach had given him an unpleasant cramp.
This damned war! He wished he could pull the
switch. No man had any business being in this ridiculous position,
least of all a guy who was on the threshold of his golden years. It
wasn't fair.
He tried to switch mental channels. Here he was, a
fifty- three-year—old poop, homesick and feeling sorry for himself
like some
Cursing silently, he picked himself up, discovering in the process a
small row of pineapples. Reaching down he plucked one, about the size
of a hand grenade, and stuffed in into his pocket. Then, compass in
hand, he prepared to retrace his steps. Let's see—the reciprocal of
the heading that had brought him to the corner of the garden would be
three three-eight degrees. He sighted this heading, then started off,
counting his steps.
Stealthily, crouched almost doubled over,
squatting occasionally to listen, he made his way back to the
wooded area. Now, if he had stayed precisely on his compass course,
had properly counted his steps, his hole should be about... here. He
poked around with his hands in the dark.
No hole.
My God! If he couldn't find his hole he was in
deep trouble. All his materials of survival—flares, gun, and
everything—were in that hole. He felt the hairs on his neck rise.
Stop it! He mustn't panic.
He forced himself to relax until his panting
stopped. Then he marked his spot and started walking around it in
ever-increasing circles.
Three minutes later he stepped into his hole.
He stripped away the brush cover, saw with relief
that his belongings were just as he had left them, then crawled back
into his haven. Even his caterpillar was safe. He gave a moment of
thanks. He had successfully debarked from his sanctuary, and by
virtue of cunning and his navigational skills he had returned safe
and sound. He grinned to himself as he recalled the old saw fliers
used on returning from a mission: "Once again science and skill
have triumphed over ignorance and superstition." No one ever
mentioned luck.
He checked in on the radio. There was obvious
relief in the voice of the pilot as he acknowledged. "Good show,
Bat Twenty-one. We were worried."
"No sweat. Now if you'll excuse me, dinner's
waiting."
"Bon appetit, Bat. Listening, out."
Gently Hambleton removed the berries from the
pockets of his flying suit and placed them in his helmet. Then he
took one ear of corn and put the other two in a pocket of his
survival vest for safekeeping. With the care of a man restoring an
old painting, he delicately peeled the husks off the ear of corn, and
picked off each silk. Then, after carefully burying the leavings, he
settled back in his hole, picked up the ear of corn in his grimy
hands, and began nibbling down the rows, a kernel at a time, reveling
in the pleasant taste of the sweet milk. When he had finished with
the corn, he solemnly proceeded to eat the cob, grinding it down to a
pulp fine enough to swallow.
Then came the fruit. One by one he consumed the
berries, first savoring them in his mouth, then crushing them with
his tongue, delighting in the squirting juice that bathed his mouth
and provided much-needed liquid to his body.
But the pineapple was something else. It was as
green and hard as the hand grenade it resembled. It defied all of his
efforts to cut it with the knife, so it went into the hole along with
the corn husks and silk.
He lay back and patted his stomach. He longed for
a cigarette to top off his repast. God, would a Marlboro taste good.
But he had to knock it off. He didn't need a cigarette. He had food
in his stomach. Look at the bright side! Count his blessings! Relax!
Perhaps a little after-dinner nap would put everything back into
proper perspective.
He shut his eyes and starting composing a military
letter to the Surgeon General about cigarettes.
But sleep still would not come. The sullen booming
of far-off guns was scarcely a lullaby, and the introduction of food
to his shrunken stomach had given him an unpleasant cramp.
This damned war! He wished he could pull the
switch. No man had any business being in this ridiculous position,
least of all a guy who was on the threshold of his golden years. It
wasn't fair.
He tried to switch mental channels. Here he was, a
fifty- three-year—old poop, homesick and feeling sorry for himself
like some
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